


wisdom, justice, & moderation

by illihee



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, i don't even know if ginny and kim are worth tagging, let's just say no, whats up i'm here to organize my awful drabbles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 11:46:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16809964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illihee/pseuds/illihee
Summary: an anthology of some of macen's most prominent memories, to be updated semi-frequently.





	wisdom, justice, & moderation

❝ _Then hail to thee, our Georgia_  
 _for the Old Thirteen_  
 _no brighter star shone ever,_  
 _or ever shall be seen_ ❞

˚ ༘ 🍑 ⋆｡˚ ✦

_  
_

⠀⠀ ⠀— 𝟏 𝟕 𝟑 𝟐 :  
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✧ One month before the ship _Ann_ ,  
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀carrying Oglethorpe's settlers,  
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀lands in Charleston on the 13th of  
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀January, 1733. ⠀⠀

_December._  
The air was cold and stung Macen's lungs with each breath, despite the layers of European linens and wools that now clothed the lengths of his arms and legs. The boy wasn't sure if he would ever get used to the itch of fabric tailored to fit him so snugly, but he supposed there was no use in resisting them when running around half naked would not even remotely be an option in the coming years.

He shuddered upon taking a particularly deep breath, catching the attention of Tobias, who turned from the bookcase – lined generously with everything from thick nonfiction works touching on the subject of botany to short anthologies of philosophical poetry – and frowned. “Are you cold?”

Macen nodded.

“Come on, then. I might as well be done here.” Tucking one book he'd set aside under his arm, Toby took Macen's hand and led him out of the reading room, down the hall decked on each side with ropes of magnolia leaves and thick candles that burned the scent of juniper.  
_Christmas._

Macen rubbed his cheek with his other hand.  
“What is Christmas?”  
The rusty-haired colony, without missing a beat, replied cheerfully. “It's a holiday Christians celebrate that marks the birth of a man named Jesus. Jesus is the son of God, who created Earth.”  
He scrunched his nose. Toby felt that doubtfulness radiating from Macen and laughed. “I know it's different from everything we've been told. I don't know if I fully believe it myself, either. Just go with it,” he chimed, sitting the younger boy down in front of a crackling fireplace as he went to pick up a heavy blanket.  
“You say that a lot. Must I do everything they ask of me? What is being a colony really like, Toby?”

Toby took his seat on the rug beside Macen, throwing one corner of the blanket over his shoulder and wrapping the other around himself. There they sat huddled together, safe from winter's bite, though a rather solemn look fell over the Carolinian's face.  
“...it's not that bad. They teach you. They clothe you, keep you warm and feed you.”  
“Mom did those things for me, too.”  
“So did mine.”  
“Why, then?”  
“That's just how it is now.”  
Their conversation trailed off. Toby emptily watched the fire, shuffling his feet so that his knees pressed closer to his chest. Macen nervously fiddled with the oak buttons sewn into his vest dyed with the finest indigo the New World had ever seen (Tobias insisted the best for his childhood friend).

Toby piped up again. “I've heard mister Oglethorpe is kind.”  
Macen looked at him, expecting more.  
“He's a philanthropist. That means he believes in acting selflessly, in giving to others without wanting anything in return. He's a fair person.”  
He tucked some loose bangs behind his ear, then smiled again and hooked his arm with Macen's, who returned his expression with a slight buck tooth and certain crookedness that struck Toby as endearing.

“I will be there for you no matter what, Macen. I trust you are in good hands, but that doesn't mean I'm letting go. You were my friend before you were theirs.” Toby rested his cheek on top of Macen's head. He was still nervous, but something about Toby and his determination made him a little more willing to put on a brave face. “If anything at all goes wrong, if anyone hurts you or even simply makes you wary, I'll be there for you.”  
“You swear?”  
“I swear.”

He would later learn that he was, in fact, the one inspiring bravery in Toby.

˚ ༘ 🍑 ⋆｡˚ ✦

⠀⠀ ⠀— 𝟏 𝟕 𝟕 𝟓 :  
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✧ Georgia is invited to the Second  
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Continental Congress.

Pennsylvania was quite a ways away from Savannah, Georgia, and the long haul made poor Macen lethargic. He was supposed to have traveled with Noble Wimberly Jones, the man he had been living with since 1746, but circumstances kept Jones from attending; the boy thus was forced to ride along with Lyman Hall, a near stranger, and the awkward lack of exchange between them the entire way meant he had plenty of time to nap.

Gathered outside Independence Hall were delegates and their colonies, none of whom he recognized except for Kimberly, the northernmost of the Carolina siblings, who he didn't exactly get along with. Though intimidating alone, she appeared to be surprisingly content talking with another colony, a lady with auburn hair and a fanciful mint-colored dress. If he had to guess, based off her lavish looks, it had to be Virginia.

He tried rubbing the somnolence from his eyes, but to no avail — it was a sudden “hello” from directly behind him that jolted him to attention.

A young man sporting a brunet ponytail, held back by a blue velvet ribbon, and gold-rimmed glasses leaned over into his line of sight. Macen blinked at him and surveyed his surroundings for any sign of Dr. Lyman – he must have gone inside already – before facing him. ⠀⠀

“Hello...”  
The bespectacled man rocked on the heels of his polished shoes, hands held behind his back. “Guess which colony I am.”  
_Oh, he's a colony too..._ Macen scratched his head, hoping he wasn't any of the colonies he knew looked down on him for not having sent delegates to the First Continental Congress...as if that were something he could help.  
“Whereabouts?”  
“North of the Carolinas.”  
Yikes. Most colonies north of Kimberly weren't keen on him.  
“Uhm...mm...who is your father?”  
The man tapped his chin.  
“Oh, if I gave that away you'd guess immediately. His first name was William.”

William. William. True, that didn't give him much to go off of; there were plenty of notable Williams, especially in Puritan Massachusetts, but it was safe to assume the Bay Colony wouldn't head straight for the runt of the thirteen unless it was to mock him.  
Macen folded his arms in thought, furrowing his brows. Then it hit him, and his arms fell back to his sides.

“...do you speak another language?”  
“ _Ja._ ”  
The Georgian smiled wide and without thinking twice threw his arms around the other, face buried in the clean white ruffles of his shirt. “William Penn?!” Muffled came the answer to Casper's riddle, causing him to laugh. With ease he lifted the little colony up, nestling him in the crook of his arm. “It's good to finally see you in person, Macen. I'm glad you made it here alright.”  
Putting face to letters filled Macen with a sense of familiarity and relieved him the anxiety of being alone among his older peers that undoubtedly had reservations about him even being there in the first place.

“Have you talked to anyone else yet? I'd be happy to take you around to meet everyone, but i'm sure you know Kimberly already...Tobias should be here soon.” Casper hummed, steadily moving into the shade of a tree. From the Pennsylvanian's shoulder Macen peered out at the rest of the colonies, some of whom were now smiling at the pair. That, too, brought him some reassurance.  
“I haven't. But I don't know if I want to...I'm scared some of them don't like me.” “Aww, now why wouldn't they like you? You've done nothing to hurt them.”

Casper continued to talk as he set Macen down on his feet, but he was tuned out without noticing. Macen had locked eyes with someone sitting across from them on the other side of the hall, beneath their own tree — dark brown hair, lopsided in length, steely blue eyes, freckles splashed across his cheeks and nose. Bandages wrapped his neck and chest beneath his loosely buttoned shirt, he could tell.

Finally, Casper followed Macen's stare, and he too observed the wounded and stoic boy sitting by his lonesome.

“Ah. There you are, Camden.”

˚ ༘ 🍑 ⋆｡˚ ✦

⠀⠀ ⠀— 𝟏 𝟗 𝟖 𝟖 :  
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✧ Macen's 200th year  
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀of statehood.

England, he reckoned, might not be so different from Georgia.  
London was seemingly the hub of the universe, but just thirty minutes outside of the city, the dwellings aged and rolling, idyllic fields of green grass opened up, much as they did only half an hour outside of Atlanta.

But it still felt awkward for Macen, hopping off the London Underground at Upminster Station and treading down the streets as if he had simply taken MARTA home. He was not fond of traveling internationally, much less so to any country other than South Korea, whom he had an established personal relationship with; Seong-ha was a friend he contacted fairly regularly. Arthur, not so much.  
Unfortunately, this time around, Seong-ha did not have what Macen was looking for. Georgia was not a Korean colony. Korea did not even know Georgia existed in 1732. No, James Oglethorpe was a distinct Briton.

The church was old. According to Arthur, who was kind enough to have done some local research for him ahead of time, records for the All Saints' Church in Cranham dated back to 1254. The building of course had been torn down and rebuilt to kingdom come many times since Oglethorpe, Cranham Hall's final owner, was interred there, but traces of his legacy could still be found in numbers. And, of course, the man himself was still there, resting peaceably beneath the chancel with his wife.  
No doubt in his years spent buried so far from his province, he enjoyed the sounds of the choir's hymns, weddings and baptisms. Some of the happiest moments of people's lives — it's what he would have wanted.

Question was – and Macen pondered this his entire journey across the pond, through the train tunnels, and now as he stepped carefully across the graveyard towards the heavy church doors – did Oglethorpe want to hear from him? Was it wrong of him to interrupt that holy sleep? Was this trip he had been considering since before the birth of the American Constitution worth it?

With slight hesitation, Macen placed his hand on the brass doorknob (chilly and slightly wet from the morning mist) and slowly pushed the door open. First just enough to peek in, then just enough to slip inside without making too much noise. The air was silent, and he didn't want to disturb it.  
Regardless, a black-clothed priest looked up and turned from his pulpit, eyeing Macen in the dim light of candles curiously before recognizing him.  
“Oh, mister Habersham, welcome. If I'd known you would be coming this early I would have met you at the station. My apologies.” The man grinned warmly at him, stepping away from his open Bible and sermon papers to coax Macen further in. “It's okay. I was anxious to get here. I was double-checking the train platforms and times all night.” He chuckled, his southern accent conflicting yet somehow blending with the accent of the priest.  
They say southern English is closer to British English than any other dialect of the language.

His fingers tapped the corners of the wooden pews as he walked, but his attention was drawn squarely to the brilliant stained glass windows depicting Noah, Abraham, Isaac, and Joseph, Christ the Light of the World and Christ the Good Shepherd.  
“Any different from churches in your country?” The priest asked, pausing to return a book of hymns to its basket.  
Macen glanced at him, then shook his head. “Not really. The inner city and rural churches are historic like this...stained glass and everything. Though churches in the suburbs are starting to adopt a modern look to appeal to those kinds of families, I guess.”  
Spoken as if he were still a regular attendee.  
The priest made an acknowledging noise, then gestured to the floor between the stalls of the choir.  
“Right here. There is a plaque on the wall to the left with his portrait, though I suppose you of all people would know what he looked like in the flesh. I will be in my office if you need me; no rush.”

Macen, finding his voice was suddenly wanting to quiver, gave a hushed thank you to the priest as he disappeared down a narrow hall.  
Staring at his boots, he swallowed thickly and lowered to his knees. After a moment of stillness, he sat back on his feet and began, without premeditation as to what it is he even wanted to say.

“Hey, dad...I'm grown up now, so I figure I better not address you as Tibby after all this time.”

The floorboards creaked. He felt something cold on his right shoulder. Tears he didn't know were welling up rolled down his cheeks and plopped onto the red carpet, staining it.  
The pressure of all his body weight. A draft, maybe.  
A sensation of comfort washed over him.

“I never forgot what you told me. Non sibi, sed aliis. But have another motto now that I've been hoping you'd like. Wisdom, Justice, and Moderation...”


End file.
